


like thoughts inside a dream.

by thychesters



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Josh thinks too much, but less slow burn and more grabbing a hot pan and realizing how much it hurts, eventual Sam and Josh stuff most likely, kinda Josh-centric character study
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5323199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thychesters/pseuds/thychesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joshua Washington is, for all intents and purposes, fine, thank you very much.</p>
<p>He just thinks so, so much. There is so much to think about and mull over, and with his mind running a mile a minute, nothing is ever quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. dumbledore calls it a pensieve; i call it a mirror.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm trash i'm trash i'm trash
> 
> i'm also the kind of person to scour youtube videos for small details so no shame no shame.  
> this starts out more like pretending i can actually get inside josh's head. to be followed by something with a little more story and body to it.  
> sobs this is my first foray into the until dawn fandom; go easy on me, friends.
> 
> like sands through the hour glass, these are the days of our lives.  
> come cry with me over josh and the other children @[jessmoorechesters](http://jessmoorechesters.tumblr.com)!

Joshua Washington is, for all intents and purposes, fine, thank you very much.

Fine is not _normal_ , but he figures that’s the closest he can get, and at the moment he will take what he can get. He’s not a freak or anything, he’s just… a little fucked up. That’s an apt way of putting it, he thinks. 

Beth says he should’ve put “shitty jokes and obscure movie references no cares about” as his senior quote. He tells her that, first off, that wouldn’t even fit, _Jesus, Beth, thought you were supposed to be the smart one here. All those are AP classes are for naught._ It also doesn’t have the same ring to it that “ _Godspeed, Pilgrim_ ,” does. (It had been that, or _"Life is tough, but it's tougher when you're stupid."_ )

He’s just. Tired. Sometimes. Gets stuck in neutral and idles, watches the world roll by while he sits in the passing lane and covers it with supposed wit and quotes, most of which Chris continues or laughs at.

Shitty jokes when you ask for them. Shitty jokes when you _didn’t_ ask for them. The benefits of being friends with Josh Washington.

He tends to like the word ‘fine,’ thinks it encompasses a great deal and conveys a number of meanings. It all comes down to situations and intonations, because there’s fine, _fine_ , and fi-ine for example. (He tends to use the latter on Sam, which usually earns him a solid “hardy har” and a pink tint to her cheeks. Making her blush is good. It’s normal. It’s also amusing as hell.)

He likes doing things with his hands. Makes him feel productive. Useful. It keeps his hands moving and mind working and everything else quiet. Beth finds small tasks to assign him to, tries her best not to be condescending when she does, which is how he finds himself sewing a button on one of her sweaters and scheming his next prank while she tells him one of the bulbs is out in her bathroom and she can’t reach it. Hannah makes mac'n'cheese for lunch downstairs, and when mom comes home she’s amused that her almost high school alumni children still make it a point to eat Spongebob shapes.

Their parents already know, about that other thing, but mom doesn’t get it like his sisters do, and dad chooses to entertain his mind with movie trivia and scene dissection. He appreciates it. Sort of. (It also interrupts the story-telling aspect of the movie when dad pauses it every five minutes. A three hour movie turns into an all-day event. But dad’s also, y’know. Making an effort.)

Josh also knows what she’s doing. Beth, that is. He can be a little dense—especially in regards to a certain blonde, according to his sisters, but his face always heats up and the subject changes—but he’s not blind. He can be a “dumb-dumb,” sure.

Beth’s the one who understands him the most, though. She’s the one who found him the first time. The first time he actually did a little more than think about it. It was more a test from himself than anything, maybe. 

Not even Chris knows. Or he does, but not all the fine details. He decides not to weigh him down with that. He’s his best friend, Cochise, not his therapist. He has Dr. Hill for that. (And Dr. North before that. And Dr. Williams before that. And Dr. Purkiss before that. And Dr. Harris to start it all.)

Sam doesn’t know that much either, just a few things she’s picked up in her years orbiting the Washington estate and becoming the blonde child Melinda never had. His sisters harangue him, and Chris tells him he can’t give him shit over Ashley because “bro, do you see what this is? Do you see. You see.”

He likes her, God he does, used to think of her as his little sisters’ friend and that other other sister he got instead of a dog, but then she was always there and then puberty hit and there was a few month stretch where he couldn’t look at her for too long without his face going red.

He can escape her just as much as he can escape great aunt Judy’s kisses at Christmas, which is to say not at all.

She’s ever present, starting from eleven years-old and on, at first trailing after Hannah, and then Hannah and Beth, and then zeroing in on Josh. Mom used to joke about how she couldn’t remember having a fourth. Still does. The trailing had turned into a spare key, to being allowed to let herself in whenever, within reason, to making a beeline for Josh’s room and flopping on his bed beside him, because his room has the best view of the backyard. He knows the looks the twins are giving her when she comes in, knows the smirks and the glances, wonders if she sees them or pretends to be oblivious. 

Wonders if she sees the looks aimed her way, the ones with promises he’ll probably never follow through with. Wonders if it really is mutual, and that maybe they’re _both_ too chickenshit. Or sensible. Being a teenager is so dumb.

His door’s always open to her, has never locked her out, which is why it must have been incredibly odd the one Friday afternoon in June back when they were kids and she couldn’t go upstairs. Might as well have been vibrating in all her eleven year-old glory because she’d just gotten back from her grandparents up in Oregon after school got out for the summer, and hadn’t seen the Washingtons since before she left. But then she’d been bounding into the kitchen with a greeting for the twins before edging toward the stairs until they cut her off with a hasty no, and “Josh is sleeping,” and “he’s not feeling well.” 

The thought makes him laugh now, years later, at the thought of her quiet “oh” and “is he okay?” just down the hall. He’d found himself crouched down beside his bedroom door, peering down through the crack at the back of her head, torn between wanting her to come upstairs because that’d actually be really nice, and burrowing into the covers and shutting everyone else out. Being alone was really, really not cool. Still isn't.

Sometimes he’d like to think there was a hint of dejection in her tone at the notion that she couldn’t see him, but then he’d cast it aside as little more than friendly concern. Because that’s all they were. Are. Friends. Sam just so happens to be that one friend he kind of likes in a way that borders on ‘only' and ‘more than,’ and he toes that line more than he should, with legitimate compliments followed by a lewd remark and eyebrow waggle because he can’t be _too_ obvious. He’s as smooth as crunchy peanut butter, and probably just as healthy.

_Conceal, don’t feel._

(What’s that even from? It sounds familiar. Hannah probably said it once.) 

He chalks it up to wishful thinking when he catches some of her more recent glances in his peripherals.

He’s gotten awfully good at concealing things. He’s mastering the art of lying, at pretending. Maybe he should look into acting instead of production. 

He has to try not to pick apart her looks and smiles like she’s one of the many films he watches with his dad, because that turns into assuming things that probably aren’t actually there, which also leads to overthinking and thinking too much in general, and that gets to be a little too taxing. 

But she’s a small garden of hydrangeas and mums, something he can’t bring himself to infect and poison with weeds that pose themselves as flowers.  

(And yet she’s always shown a small appreciation for dandelions that he had never understood. They’re weeds, they grow and come back when you don’t want them; ugly little blemishes that take away from the beauty of everything else around them.)  

He’s good at pretending. Not so good at metaphors. 

They’re marathoning the first season of _American Horror Story_ , spread around the lounge in a disarray of teenage limbs and pizza boxes with Ashley shushing them because no spoilers, even if six of the eight haven’t seen the show yet. Josh re-watches along with vague interest, and Jess pretends to gasp along with the others and their string of “oh shit, oh _shit._ ” She knows more than some of them, and she might be a little smug about that. 

Mike and Emily have taken up one of the love seats, practically conjoined ( _Leave room for Jesus_ , Josh thinks.), and while the sight leaves a bitter taste in his mouth because _come on_ , he can take some solace in the fact that at least they have the decency not to blatantly start sucking face right in front of Hannah. It’s enough that they’re both here, even though they’re his friends, ergo they end up invited to just about everything, but he’d rather they not flaunt everything in front of his sister. Everyone knows. They’re not stupid, but they are dumb and just a little bit mean. Sometimes.

Sam shifting breaks him out of his reverie, her head pillowed on his chest, and he lets out a sigh from where he sits slumped into the arm of the couch. He’s spread out at an angle, long legs stretching out before him, and he occasionally nudges Beth with his foot from where she’s taken up residence on the floor, pillow squished to her chest. The arm that isn’t resting along the back of the couch sits on his stomach, and at odd intervals he imagines raising it to brush away the bangs Sam keeps pushing out of her face as they obscure her vision. She’s curled up around him, practically on top of him, nestled into his side and her feet against Hannah’s hip.

Mike turns and waggles his eyebrows at the two of them, but Sam is too caught up in watching events unfold to notice, and Josh doesn’t think much of it. Touching and being touched by Sam has never been anything new: she’s been hugging him and punching him in the arm for crude or bad jokes for as long as he’s known her, and he’s always been ruffling her hair. Physical contact is good, it’s grounding, and Sam is solid and comfortable.

This is just…kind of new, a little bit different. Cuddling on the couch—right in front of their friends, no less—is just less testing the waters and more cannonballing in the deep end.

He can’t say he minds it; he’s just relatively glad his heart isn't hammering in his chest as a dead giveaway. He has some things under control. Not all, and not most of the things he wants to, but he has some control.

He’s not drowning, he just wishes the lights were a little dimmer, that he wasn’t suddenly a little too aware and self-conscious, and that as much as he doesn’t want her to, maybe Sam will sit up a little. Maybe that would be better. Or it would get Mike to stop, at least. They’d started out sitting up with just the knees touching and the occasional elbow to the side, but that had been five episodes ago. Here they are now.

She’s warm against the thin material of his t-shirt, or maybe he’s a little too cold, has been a little too cold for a while now, and yeah, okay, maybe he wouldn’t mind her wrapped around him, because Sam radiates all kinds of warmth and he’d rather be lulled by that than the two pills he has to down in fifteen minutes during his supposed pee break.

At least the episode will be over by then. And it’s not like he’ll miss much if he skips out on the beginning of the next one, seeing as he’s seen the show anyway. But not everyone else has, and he’s found more enjoyment in gauging their reactions than watching Moira in her non-old lady outfit and uncovering who the dude in the rubber suit is again. 

He moves his hand to flick Sam’s nose, which in turn earns him a smack to the knee and Beth a foot to her elbow when he jerks. Beth punches him in the knee. Josh feigns pain and Jess tells him to shut up, and when lets out a gasp at her lack of concern, Sam giggles quietly against his chest. It’s enough to have him relaxing again, finding solace and warmth and in her laughter, and he smiles in the glow from the TV screen, enough though there isn’t really anything to laugh at there. 

His arm comes down from the back of the couch to rest against Sam’s side, and it lingers and freezes while he waits for her reaction, positive or negative. She curls into him a little more, if that’s any indication. He wouldn’t be surprised if she fell asleep right there. 

Violet holds up a bottle of pills and dumps it. Chris clears his throat to say something to Matt.

Josh excuses himself. If he’s gone a little longer than he ought to be, no one says anything. 

He turns on the water until it runs lukewarm, splashing some on his face just as there’s an “oh fuck, who in this show _isn’t_ dead?” from Chris in the lounge. Josh smiles again, though it’s tight for a reason he can’t pinpoint, and gives himself another once over in the mirror. Maybe he’s just tired—it’s been a long day, and after Emily got up to hit the switch, they’ve all been sitting in the dark. That's like an association thing, right. It being dark equals time for sleep. Right.

There are lingering traces of heat running up his side, and he decides he’s not _opposed_ to a few more episodes of cuddling, even if he’s probably gonna get a couple leers from their friends.  

Sam’s right where he left her, and she moves her foot out of his way before resuming her previous position. Her head’s back on his chest, and if his arm slips back around her, well, it fell there. Her bun tickles his nose and he blows a few strands away from his face. Hannah and Beth are probably smirking at them, but he’s too busy dozing to say anything, much less care. He drifts in and out of consciousness, Sam’s hand coming to rest on his stomach. She could probably hold his hand if she wanted to, if she just closed those few inches that burn the thin cotton. 

Matt admits that he has no idea what’s going on with this show. 

“Well, some people died,” Mike says, “and then…other things happened.” 

Josh’s hold on Sam ends up a little tighter as she shifts again, and he closes his eyes.

He wonders how long the bags under his eyes have been there, and if they’re a permanent thing.


	2. i feel like i should today.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's snowing. josh drives, thinks, and finds himself grateful that at least he'll always have beth.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone else gets to show up in a bit. for now, have the washingtons that i cry over a lot.  
> hannah still needs to be fleshed out some more, but! siblings.  
> longer than the first time around, but the original break felt a little too awkward, so instead there's a little more to chew on before sam gets here.

There are two things Joshua Washington is absolutely, without a doubt, aware of:

1\. He’s pretty fucked up.

2\. For the life of her, Beth cannot sing.

Okay, so there are also other things, but right now those are the first two that come to mind.

They’ve been granted access to the lodge for the next week, got lucky enough to get rest of their gang to convince their families and miscellaneous relatives to give them the go ahead to venture up into the mountains with the Washington kids, and Beth is flipping through what radio stations come in and declaring nothing up to her standards.

Most of what they’re getting consists of static and NPR, Jesus radio and all, " _and when one enters the house of the holy, may then he be saved,"_  but. Y’know. _Standards_.

It had taken a great deal of convincing in regards to the parental units of some of their friends and some heavy handed schmoozing from Beth, so frankly Josh is a little surprised there’s anyone else even coming in the first place. 

It also may have helped that dad did some of the talking too, addressing their concerns because children? on a mountain? without adult supervision? and had told them to consider it a Christmas gift to the kids. He'd said they deserved to enjoy themselves after their first semester of college, difficult as it was for some, and that it got them out of their parents’ hair for a week. Plus he and his wife were going to pay for transportation and all that too, so all the kids had to bring were some personal belongings and a positive attitude. (Josh tells them to feel free to bring whatever food and liquor they want. That wouldn't hurt. Feed him.)

But everyone’s parents are also in love with the Washingtons, so there’s that too. (“Melinda, you have  _such_  sweet children,” Chris’ mother said once, unaware that her son was in the backyard with his best friend and melting the heads off army men with a lighter and a can of deodorant. Ah, childhood.)

And so here they are, the day after Christmas, driving up a mountain at the ass crack of dawn. Happy holidays.

Josh drew the short straw and has to drive them up to the gate, which he still thinks is pretty friggin’ stupid because where the hell is he supposed to park the car? No one leaves their car out in this weather for a week. (Oh. There's that garage a little ways down the road too, though it's more like a shack. He'll figure something out.)

He’s also pretty jealous of Hannah right now, who’s made herself comfortable by spreading out across the backseat. How she manages to nap with her head thunking against the window every few minutes is beyond him, but he tries to avoid what bumps in the road that he can.

Hannah's the smart on here, bundled up in a blanket with Josh behind the wheel and Beth pretending she can sing. Maybe he  _will_ hit the next pothole he finds. He's a good brother like that.

She'd been more than just a little giddy the night before due in part both to the holiday spirit she immerses herself in every year, and the idea that they get to spend the next week up in the lodge with just their friends and no one to bother them for miles.

Hannah might be a little too excited because Mike's also coming, and Josh clucks his tongue.

He...also may not have too subtle about being both relieved and borderline elated that Sam had also texted him yesterday morning to wish him a "Merry Christmas!! Hope you got a ton of coal" and then again a little later to tell him she was coming, but whatever.

He's totally not wondering if Hannah stuffed some mistletoe in one of their bags. Wishful thinking on their part.

At the moment Josh is also jealous of her because now she doesn’t have to deal with Beth plugging her iPod into the jack and declaring that shotgun gets to DJ. That makes no sense to him, and he makes it a point to tell her so. 

“It’s better than white noise,” she says, thumbing through one of her playlists without looking at him. Josh eyes the tree line before them and the orange light spreading above it. No one in their right mind gets up before this hour, he figures, and he’d rather not make it a point to unless he has to. But he can appreciate the view—he’s not _that_ blind.  

Getting up at four a.m. sucks when you don’t doze off until one. And then sleep fitfully, but schematics. 

At least Sam would probably appreciate this view too, he thinks, because Beth’s frowning at her music selection, Hannah’s unconscious, and Josh is busy focusing on driving in the snow. She'd be wide awake and perky, all soft smiles as she looks out the window, as she meets his eyes in his reflection, telling them all about the animals that inhabit the area.

Sam’s usually up around this time, always has to squeeze in that morning jog whenever she can. Nothing says _good morning_ like burning calf muscles and working up a sweat, apparently, and yeah, yeah Josh should probably focus on driving.  

“Your music kinda sucks,” he says as they come around the bend, casting a glance in the rearview mirror. Beth has Rihanna playing. Not that he has anything against Rihanna, but as the big brother he is obligated by blood and by birthright to ruffle Beth’s feathers and generally be obnoxious. It’s going to be a long week. He doesn’t hide his grin well. 

Beth scoffs, thumb hovering over the screen like she’s debating keeping the song on just out of spite before flipping over to Modest Mouse. It’s one of the few bands they can agree on.

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” she shoots back, dumping her iPod in the cupholder after swapping it for the at best now lukewarm coffee she'd made before they left. Josh’s eyebrows crawl up his forehead. They don't quite make it to his beanie, though they're close.

“I’m _driving_. Driver should _always_ be asked for their input, especially in regards to music. It's a basic human right, Bethany. I mean, you come into my house—”  

She swats his arm, and he turns the wheel so they’re a little too close to the other lane. 

“—and gonna attack me too, no less. This is a very stressful, hurtful drive. I’m turning this car around before I end up swerving off the side of the road and crashing. I refuse to have a rescue crew dig my body out of the wreckage with _Disturbia_ playing in the background. At least let them carry my body away to the melody of Queen or something."

Though she never likes to admit it, Beth snorts. "Nothing says 'he had a good run; sucks he's dead now' like  _Bohemian Rhapsody_."

"Now you're getting it," Josh says, smirk pulling at his mouth as he glances at her out of the corner of his eye. "If I have to go out in a blaze of glory because my sister punched me, there better be some good tunes. Even if I still can't believe my own  _sister_ is the cause of my death. You'd murder your own flesh and blood. And for what? Rihanna. You'd kill me for Rihanna."

"I find your lack of faith disturbing," she deadpans from the passenger seat, pulling her feet up. She looks out the window, watching the snow fall and twirl around the glass. Josh snickers and catches a glimmer of the smile she's trying to hide from him as she moves, tilting her head back to look up at the sky, a mixture of orange and blue and white. Beth sighs, and the conversation shifts. "I love it up here."

It looks like a snow globe. Reminds him of the one on his desk back home, the one his dad brought back from Manhattan when he was six, and when he shakes it Central Park is lost in a flurry, only to reappear bit by bit. Things that are lost but get to come back. Only up here instead of skyscrapers reaching up and cutting into the horizon with steel and glass, it's trees and mountains, all climbing up, up, up. 

He wonders what it must be like to be all the way up there, to reach out and touch the sky, trace his fingers over the horizon where his biggest concerns are the wind and the clouds obstructing his view of the world so far below.

Then he thinks of Icarus, of the book of mythology he poured over one summer, and the report on folklore he helped Ashley with her junior year. The impact of storytelling on historical events or something. Icarus with his wax wings, flying too close to the sun and falling, falling, falling, crashing and burning.

Maybe he and Icarus have something in common, maybe Josh has parts made of wax, too, and it's only a matter of time before it all melts and he's left to plummet and drown.

"It's just...so peaceful," Beth continues, voice dragging him back out of his thoughts of wax and free falls and into reality, into the here and now. "You could just bury me up here and I'd be happy."

"I'll bury you in the snow," Josh supplies helpfully. It wouldn't be the first time, and it definitely won't be the last. He has a big brother reputation to uphold, after all. And he still needs to get back at her for last year. Revenge is bitter, cold, and sweet.

"So sweet," she sighs, wistful. "I don't know what I ever did to deserve a brother like you."

"After the ceremony I'll just blast  _Bohemian Rhapsody_ at full volume to wake you up so you can crawl back and tell me to shut the fuck up. It'll be both hilarious  _and_ traumatizing."

His grin turns strained.

He's trying to find a way to tell her without actually having to tell her how uncomfortable the idea of death makes him sometimes, especially hers. And Hannah's. When he first met them in the hospital mom let him hold them so long as he made sure to mind their heads, and he swore right then and there to protect them always and forever, because that was what big brothers did.

They were also so tiny, so how were they supposed to defend themselves? By crying all the time? That didn't protect them much, but that didn't mean they didn't scream for hours on end anyway. And there was the time Hannah scraped her knee when she was four, chasing her siblings around before tripping in the driveway, and Josh had consoled her and promised through his missing front teeth that nothing bad would ever happen to her  _or_ Beth, not if he could help it.

Beth sits and jokes about her own funeral, and Josh plays along and covers it with humor, because what else is he supposed to do? It's all in jest, anyway. None of it's real. But that doesn't mean he's not without the occasional nightmare of being totally, irrevocably alone. No Bob, no Melinda, no twins. No Cochise or Sammy or the rest of the gang, only Josh, Josh, Josh, Josh the Fuck Up.

He can feel Beth's eyes burning into him. The wax is melting.

"Did you take..?"

She's not the only one who knows, but she's the only one who will really ask. Will address it point blank. Blunt as she can be, he finds he appreciates it. It's better than false soothing tones and beating around the bush, which usually only serves to frustrate and anger and drag everything back to square one.

He forgot to this morning. He was too busy with last minute packing and pretending he was actually awake. The coffee/Monster blend he'd perfected back at school clearly wasn't doing the trick now, and there was a bright orange bottle rolled up in a ball of socks jammed into the very bottom of his bag. That's in the way back, in the trunk and next to the gift he hadn't been able to get to Sam yesterday and the beer he's only recently been able to legally purchase.

He's about to tell her yeah, yeah he did, don't worry so much, but if there's one thing Josh and Beth have in common, it's that they hate being lied to. (Must be one of the reasons he told their parents Dr. Purkiss was doing jack shit for him, though not in as many words. Dr. Purkiss was clueless and half deaf. Didn't care. Sitting with him was like trying to learn how grow back a limb he'd never been born with to begin with.)

"I will as soon as we get there," he says instead. Good, that's good, he figures. That way he's also keeping to his schedule of once in the morning at nine, and once at night at nine. Scheduling is good, regulation is good. Plans are awesome.

He's also really fuckin' tired. Thank God the gate's not all that far at this point. He's starting to see the light—literally. It's much brighter now than it was when they first left. And he can go find a bush to water before they head up to the cable car, because damn does he have to pee now.

Beth's lips draw into a thin line, the beginning of a frown creasing the skin between her eyebrows, and her beanie's sliding off her head and leaving her head static-y and sticking to the headrest. She goes to speak, probably reprimand him or something, but then Hannah's smacking her lips in the backseat and groaning. Josh looks up at the rearview mirror to find her adjusting her hair and glasses.

"Welcome back to the world of the living, Sleeping Beauty."

"Unh," she gets out at first. Then she clears her throat and reaches up between the seats, pawing for the travel mug Beth's holding. "God, shut up."

Beth hands the coffee back to her sister, and Josh chews on his tongue for a moment as he waits for her to bring it up again. She doesn't, thankfully, instead reaching back toward the cupholder for her iPod.

"Bah humbug," Josh says to them both.

Lana del Ray gets interrupted mid-verse as Beth queues up Pharrell Williams, and aggressive, obnoxious clapping along by the twins ensues.

 

> \-- -- --

No one else is supposed to show up for a while still, which means they still have some time to set up the excess Christmas decorations the twins stowed in the back alongside the coolers of junk food and liquor. Hannah cites it as there still being a few days between Christmas and New Years, and hanging up some fairy lights isn’t going to hurt anything. They’re there for a weeklong getaway, going to play drinking games and stupid pranks, because nothing says Happy New Year like shots and snowball fights.

Also. Fuck, now they have to actually get everything up to the lodge. 

Not only do they have a bag with a week's worth of clothing each, but there's also the non-perishables they brought, and the liquor, and the decorations, and everything else, and at this point they should just camp out here at the bottom of the mountain instead. First they have to get everything up to the cable car, and then they have to lug it all up another trail to the lodge. Sam would be having a field day with all that hiking, and meanwhile Josh is tired and willing to pass out in the snow if he has to. He'll be there to greet the others, at least. Make the twins carry everything up. That's a great plan.

By the time they get their things up to the cable car station, they choose not to risk testing the weight and old car. Instead, Beth gets sent up first with her bag, the coolers, and the decorations while her older siblings hang out at base camp and admire the view as the sun rises along the mountain.

"This place is so amazing," Hannah says, voice barely carrying over the sound of the mechanisms moving Beth and the cable car up along the track. The ghost of a smile pulls at Josh's mouth, seeing as she sounds just like their sister all of half an hour ago.

"Yeah, it's something else," Josh replies, though he sounds a little more tired than he means to. Man, he can't wait to get to the lodge and go pass out on his bed there. Or maybe the couch--or the floor, even. Whatever's closest.

_A warm bath sounds nice_ , he thinks for a second, and then he catches himself because  _haha, oh. Hardy har._ He can blame the pink tint to his cheek on the wind.

He loves the cold, friggin' revels in it. LA doesn't get cold so much as it gets mild, and there's no snow and parkas and puffs of air that come out with every exhale where he can sometimes imagine he's a dragon. He'd probably live here if he could, set up camp in the lodge and wander around in the cold and forest for hours on end, only wandering back at dusk to return feeling to his limbs and curl up in front of a roaring fire as a means of establishing some balance between hot and cold. (Yes and no, up and down, dark and light and shut up Katy Perry.)

But that would also probably entail being alone. For extended periods of time, no less. So.

Maybe he'll invite Sam up to his little winter wonderland where they don't have to worry about school and exams and graduation, or psychiatrists and counting pills, crippling anxiety over thoughts of isolation in the dark at two a.m. They'll have each other, and he'll make bad jokes and she'll take him on hikes he'll pretend to dread, and then they'll come back to hot cocoa (with soy milk, for Sam), and sometimes their friends will come visit. Wait, wait, wait. Back up.

It's a delusional little fantasy, and he's more than a little sleep deprived. It's been decided. Hannah and Beth can unpack and set things up, and he's gonna pass out for four hours minimum. These three make quite the team.

Josh takes in a nice deep breath, the crisp mountain air biting into his throat and lungs. It spreads, seeps through him and trickles down through his veins, right to the tips of his toes and his fingers. It's refreshing, to say the least, though the word doesn't encompass everything he wants it to. He sticks his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet as they wait for the cable car to return. The snow crunches under his heels.

Freshly fallen snow is among one of his favorite things. The sight and the cold, the way he can step through it and leave an imprint, something to say Josh Washington was here, though the footprints only linger for so long. Snow is incredible.

Hannah tilts her head and sticks her tongue out in attempt to catch one of the few snowflakes that fall around them, drifting in the early morning breeze. It's less of a fall and more of a dance, and Hannah is grinning and there are flakes catching in her hair and melting on her glasses. She looks so calm, peaceful, and Josh crosses his fingers along the smooth lining in his pocket that she stays that way. For a little while longer, at least.

She looks over at him then, looks like she's about to push him face first into the snow. She also looks like she's about to start teasing him because her best friend's going to be joining them later and oh, is that right? Why he had _no_ idea. Shut up.

"C'mon," he tells her, hands still stuck in his pockets as he gestures toward the station that harbors their belongings with his elbow. It's like flapping a featherless, waxless wing. "I'm not moving all this stuff by myself."

"Oh, you are but a weak little one, aren't you," Hannah says, tone light as her smile remains. She drags her feet in the snow, leaving trailing imprints of her own with her boots. He heaves a dramatic sigh, his shoulders sagging for emphasis.

"I'm a delicate little flower."

He lets her nudge him aside, and he turns to watch her push the door open and stomp excess snow off her feet. The cable car's making an ungodly grinding noise, a stark and angry contrast against the otherwise relative quiet. It's maybe what, six in the morning? Six thirty at most? Most of the _birds_ aren't even awake yet. 

"Poor child."

His hand closes around the strap of his backpack before hoisting it over his shoulder, and he pretends to pout. Hannah hums as she gathers her things, and he can practically feel Beth sitting up at the other side of the cable, probably sitting on the bench and playing her iPod again, and for a moment he wonders what kind of prank he can get away with. He can get away with a lot if he gets Hannah in on it, actually, and she's not one to say no to screwing with her sister.

She offers up a few ideas of her own with a wicked grin as they load up some of the food they'd packed along with their bags, and Josh interjects with his own suggestions here and there. As it stands their current options are to wait a few minutes after they reach the other station or to wait until they reach the lodge to prank Beth, but Hannah's impatient and Josh thinks they could use a good laugh sooner rather than later.

The car lurches, his stomach stuck in a momentarily loop of dropping and somersaulting before he shifts his weight and settles again. There's a gleam in Hannah's eye as she plots and looks out the window, admiring the view once more.

While she looks up Josh looks down into the valley below and wonders what Icarus' last thoughts were.


	3. come to the land of ice and snow.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> josh washington: be_cool.jpg  
> error 404 chill not found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel terrible that this is under the sam/josh tag and there has yet to be any real, y'know sam/josh, so here we get the ball rolling. that aspect of the story will be more prominent from here on out, though one of the main focuses is still on josh.  
> but i'm also sam x josh trash and not ashamed, so. :))))  
> i just want these losers to be happy.
> 
> **also, timeline was fixed in the last chapter so that it's set in the last week of 2013, going on 2014. most are in their freshman year of college.

The shower is long and hot and it's the most relaxed he's felt in days. 

He scrubs soap across his stomach, which still smarts from where Chris had dumped his bag on him earlier. True to his word, Josh had taken up residence on the first couch he’d found, only to be rudely interrupted by the impromptu wake up call that was his best friend. And Chris apparently packs bricks for all of his vacations.

He’d woken up with a panicked little grunt, disoriented as his brain tried to play catch up. It had taken him a minute to recognize the lodge, the grin on Chris’ face, and Ashley laughing somewhere across the room.

On the bright side, his two hour power nap had been nothing but beautiful, dreamless sleep, and he finds himself grateful for that, at least. Dreams are fuckin’ weird, and if he’s totally honest he prefers not to have any if he can help it. Uncreative, boring sleep is the best kind of sleep. It's the only kind of sleep he wants, because if he's not having shitty dreams, he's having nightmares. He prefers the lesser of two evils.

He closes his eyes, running his hands through his hair so that his nails drag along his scalp and his fingers tug at the roots. He's only marginally more well-rested than he was before, but the couch is still calling his name and he's not quite prepared to be up and moving around again just yet. His breath also reeks because he fell asleep with his mouth hanging open, so isn't that attractive.

Who knew someone could be this tired. Just this…exhausted. Constant exhaustion, though that might have something to do with his nightly four hours of sleep maximum, and the caffeine intake that might have some correlation to being too aware of his own heartbeat sometimes. Oops.

School stresses him out in the way that only school can, with eight a.m. classes and ten-page papers on subjects he could less about, and he pivots on the wet tile so the spray pounds along his back. He sighs.

Winter break gives him three weeks away from school, away from exams and papers and everything else college entails, and as much as it can fuck with his anxiety and already jacked sleep schedule, he's free of it for the time being. Right now he's hanging out in a remote lodge up in the mountains, away from most of the struggles of society and whatever else, and he's going to enjoy it. His friends are here, his sisters are here. And at this point, Sam's probably here.

She tends to come to mind more often than not, lately.

That can't be a terrible thing, right?

By the time he's located a shirt he can hear her downstairs, knows that at this point she just _has_ to be down there because he's a freak like that, and he totally doesn't rush to finish getting dressed, one of his socks twisted and his hair in a complete disarray. It's just his natural look. He almost trips over the bathmat.

The bags under his eyes are designer. They feel like they're part of him now.

Hannah didn’t know until October, and he feels like shit for lying to her about it for so long. But he also feels like shit about a bunch of other things, so what else is new? Beth only found out before her twin did because she'd been snooping around his room for a CD he meant to lend her. He got better at storing his pill bottles after that.

He’d bumped into her on his way upstairs after a short meet-and-greet with Matt and Ashley, a riveting conversation that had consisted mostly of yawns and “hey.” 

“Your bag’s in your room,” Beth’d said, raising an arm in a vague gesture, waving it at the entire ceiling. Josh’d given her a noncommittal grunt, because it’d also been code for reminding him of the bright orange bottle he's tethered to and the shake, rattle, and roll of its contents that are supposed to keep him on the right track, or however the doctors want to refer to it. All he knows is that if he keeps to schedule, sometimes he feels okay, and sometime they make him feel a little...off.

He's pretty sure most people don't have the words "fluoxetine," "duloxetine," and "amitriptyline" on the tip of their tongue and ready to go. He's also pretty sure most people don't have to cancel play dates when they're thirteen because their antidepressant is giving them persistent migraines. He can't remember what lie his mother had told Mike's, just curling up in his bed and holding his head, pretending that he wasn't crying because how come he had to take pills and his friends didn't? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

But it seems to keep his sisters and their parents happy, so that has to count for something.

He just wishes he didn't need them to begin with.

The amitriptyline leaves a chalky residue on his tongue despite the mouthful of water he'd scooped up with his hand, and he swallows again. Dr. North had told him to follow the direction to the letter, as had Dr. Hill less than a month later, acting as if ' _take twice daily_ ' is really all that hard to comprehend. Palming two at first had been an accident, but as he stands in the bathroom shirtless in front of the fogged over mirror he weighs his odds before ultimately deciding that fuck it, he can take two at once, and then follow it up with his second dose later that night. The prescription said he could take them one to four times a day anyway. He can read, he's not _that_ fucked up.

He clears his throat, decides he needs to focus.

There are lights strewn along the banisters, twirling around and down the railings when he finally comes out of the bathroom, and while he didn't think he was in the shower that long, he has to admit he's impressed. It's warm and inviting, and he can't wait to see how they'll look tonight, a soft glow standing out against the darkness of the forest creeping in through the windows. It almost looks like one of those houses in the dated magazines neatly stacked in the reception area of the doctor's office, and he frowns at the association. They're here for a week, spared from having to deal with anything and everything involving life outside of the lodge, and he'd rather not ruin the twins' set up by mulling over his current therapist.

He announces his entrance in typical Josh Washington fashion: loudly, and nearly tripping over his own feet.

At the bottom of the stairs he finds Sam beaming at him, all rosy cheeks and mused hair as she pulls off her hat, and Josh finds himself mirroring her expression as he approaches her, one of his socks still twisted around his toes. _She_ hugs him first, tosses her coat on the arm of the couch and just about leaps at him. Her arms wind around his shoulders as his go around her waist, and she makes a surprised little noise as he lifts her, holds her against him like they haven't seen one another in years. His cheek burns where hers is pressed against it, but it's the welcome kind of burn. 

Not that there are many welcome kinds of burns, but.

"You smell nice," Sam says after she's pulled her face away, and his might as well be about to crack in half before he puts her back down. A small part of him misses her embrace already, but he's just a freak like that. Oh. Yeah.

He raises his eyebrows in a mockery of disbelief, hand going to his chest as he gasps. " _Samantha_! You mean to tell me you were—you were  _sniffing_ me? What scandal."

"Hardy har," she deadpans, and he half expects her to punch him in the arm. She doesn't, which is odd. "Merry Christmas, you doofus."

He can hear Jess laughing, which must mean Mike and Emily are here too. The noise is coming from the general direction of the kitchen, and Josh figures the coffeemaker has to be the center of attention. He's pretty jazzed at the idea of coffee. Should probably ask Sam if she'd like some, or if she wants to unpack first. Or if she wants to go unpack and he can get her some. Because he's a good friend like that.

He's also such a great friend that he's not going to pass up an opportunity when he sees it, and his grin becomes more of a leer.

"Oh yeah? Gonna come sit on Santa's lap and tell him what you want for Christmas?"

Sam guffaws and this time she does hit him, but it's more of a swat to his arm than anything. "You're so gross."

" _Someone's_ definitely on the naughty list," he says, nursing his injury. She mutters something about how she hopes all he got for Christmas was coal, and Josh pulls a face. Banter. Good. He can do this. He's been doing this for almost as long as he can remember. Banter with Sam is fantastic, he just...probably should learn to rein it in a little. There's funny, and then there's creepy. He has to be edging toward the latter right now. Shit. Sorry Sam. "I need something to keep me warm at night—unless you're up for it? I promise I don't bite unless you want me to."

Might as well wink, Josh. Fuck, be a little more obvious. Or carry on and make the rest of the week incredibly awkward. That's a great plan. If it bothers her at all, Sam is a wicked actress, judging by the way she's trying and failing to hide her smile. Or maybe she's taking pity on him, on poor Josh Washington who's had a crush on a girl who just so happens to be his sister's best friend for the past seven years or so. Ha ha, shit.

Okay, okay, okay.

"Maybe later," she says. "If you behave, that is."

Seeing as he wasn't expecting that, his train of thought back fires, and there's a tiny voice in the back of his mind going,  _fuck man, I got nothin'._ Error 404 Response Not Found. Restart. Shut Down. Remind Me Later.

It's not the first time she's given him shit, but he was waiting for her to tell him to shut up, not make that face with half-lidded eyes and—what is that, a smolder? She's gonna turn the tables on him and  _smolder_? Two can play at that game. Hell, he pretty much  _invented_  this game. Between them, at least.

Josh drops his arms, hands seeking out his pockets as he leans in and yeah, two can definitely play this game. He moves until there's barely any space between them, his lip brushing the shell of her ear and his voice a whisper meant to hold promises he doubts he can ever actually carry through with. "And if I don't?"

He never gets to hear her response, because Chris yells from the next room and he jumps away so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. He can't tell if the look in Sam's eyes is disappointment or concern, or maybe something else entirely.

Partly afraid of her answer, he chooses not to ask.

> \-- -- --

They're not lazy, they're just a bunch of college kids on break who spent the day getting a feel for the lodge again, napping, and lounging around in their pajamas. A long, boring, lazy day, at the end of which comes junk food and gathering around a roaring fire.

Mike had started up a game of Bullshit, which had then turned into a stressful two rounds of Go Fish (dubbed "Fuck Off" five minutes in), and has since devolved into Matt and Ashley attempting to build a house of cards. Matt mutters a quiet "just like my future" every time it falls.

It surprises absolutely no one that Josh and Sam sit so close together, shared blanket spread over both their laps, and they play catch up with Emily and Chris, filling one another in on details of school and life. Chris keeps glancing in Ashley's direction, and Josh passes off his smirk as simply smiling at his friends. When Emily turns away to ask Mike something, he exchanges a knowing look with Sam, trying not to focus too hard on the way her eyes reflect the fire or how the shadow follows the slope of her nose. He can see the fairy lights above them dance along her irises, and in that moment, he swears he's a fucking Hallmark card. $3.99 on recycled paper, just for that special someone.

He's also revoked Beth's DJ rights for the night, passing the torch on to Hannah instead, so the room's full of the soft, acoustic chords of The Lumineers in the background. It's snowing outside. The Hallmark Channel would be having a field day with him, though they'd probably exclude a few key details.

Jess ruins the moment by throwing a bottle cap at him. The metal hitting his cheek is jarring for a moment, and he's blinking and looking around like a moron. God, he's such an idiot.

"It's your turn to get snacks," she says, her smile a little too smug. Or maybe that's just him.

He makes a big show of having to get up, huffing as he unfolds and stands, tries to pretend he wasn't a little too content sitting there bundled up with Sam. Totally wasn't considering the ramifications of slinging an arm over her shoulders. Not like he hadn't done that before, but doing so in front of an audience probably isn't in his best interest.

Sometimes he wonders if it bothers Sam, if his tiny displays of affection, the hand on her shoulder or the knee bumping hers unsettles her. If she doesn't want him to touch her, but lets him because she's too nice, doesn't want to hurt his feelings. But if she had any problem with it then she wouldn't be hugging or curling up on him anytime they watch Netflix together. (It's their  _American Horror Story_  marathon all over again.  _Asylum_ sounds very fitting for him. Ha ha.) Sam initiates physical contact more than he does. Why is he giving this so much thought?

Oh shit, he never gave her her Christmas gift. Nice going, Josh.

"You mean I have to feed you people too?" He stretches, working some of the kinks out of his back. "Screw it, everybody go outside and grab the sharpest stick you can find. You don't hunt, you don't eat."

Beth tells him to shut the fuck up and get the Fritos. Mike says he wants some barbecue sauce for the squirrel he's gonna go trap.

Their collection of snacks is left in a heap on the island, and Josh is still snickering as he pushes aside a bag of Doritos and Sour Patch kids to get to the chips his sister wants. Tonight is...nice. His friends have set up camp in the main room, and their voices and laughter carry into the kitchen. His smile is small, but it's there. It's only Day One—Night One, really—but they seem to be having a good time, and that's all he can really ask for. It's awesome.

He's rooting around in the cupboard for a bowl when a hand pokes his hip, and Josh jumps, almost throwing the chip bag into the sink beside him. Cursing lightly he turns to find Sam standing next him, a look of worry crossing her features before it smooths back into amusement. She shoves at his hip again, telling him to scoot, she'll help.

For a split second Josh entertains the idea of kissing her, of what it’d be like to wind an arm around her waist and tug her just a little bit closer, Fritos be damned. His hand against her cheek, cupping the side of her face after tucking hair behind her ear. He’d have to bend down a little bit to close the few inches between them, admire the sheen of her lipgloss and the shine of her eyes under the lights. Sam uses strawberry chapstick, and he wonders what it would taste like, if she’d let him. Her lips are dry and chapped from the cold, and he figures the pre-dawn run she probably went on that morning hadn’t helped any. (He can provide her some aid there. He can be some great assistance.)

So it’s for a little longer than a split second. And it may have been a thought he’s had before.

It’s like a string pulled taunt between them, and it snaps and the frayed end hits him in the eye when Sam takes a step back. For a second he panics, thinks she knows exactly what he was thinking, can crane her head and see it in his eyes plain as day. But honestly, she’s gonna tell him she hasn’t thought about that at least once?

She's smiling. He's about to start stuttering.

"C'mon," he gets out, ruining the moment in an attempt to save himself. He reaches around her for and blindly gropes at the counter for the drinks behind her. "The impatient masses are waiting."

Her smile falters, but the next minute she’s reaching for his free hand with the one that isn’t occupied with a bowl of corn chips.

“Yeah, okay,” she says, giving him a tug in an attempt to pull him forward. He goes with her after some initial resistance, a _left, right, left, right_ mantra playing in his head as he does. “The others are waiting for me to kick your butt at Scrabble.”   

A grin plays at his mouth as he adjusts his hold on the six-pack that’s probably going to last them all of ten minutes combined. “Please; I still don’t trust you with any words that starts with ‘x.’ Or any of the other twenty-five letters, for that matter.”

He almost makes a crack about ‘u’ and ‘i,’ but they’re too close to everyone else now. It doesn't feel right.

His step falters briefly when he realizes he's past due for his second dose, fuck, but then he figures he took two this morning, and his bag is all the way upstairs. Sam's palm is warm against his and he wants nothing more than to bundle up on the couch again, immerse himself in the presence of their friends, laugh and drink and snack along with them, because that's normal.

She drops his hand, and he can still feel its ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so i may or may not have scoured the until dawn wiki because i like the little details, so there's that.  
> hahahaha i am so tired and in pain i hate these two


	4. this valley winter song.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nothing says 'bonding' like pancakes and pelting your friends with snow. or, uh, one of them trying to kiss you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one took much longer than i expected! i ended up writing stuff that doesn't happen until later in this fic along with plotting out a whole other series of small fics, and then i hit a roadblock with this when i needed to transition. i'm not overly pleased with it, but there needed to be some room between the last and future events (which involve actual sam/josh cuddles lmao), but at least you get to watch these losers bond for a bit.  
> to make up for the wait, have something a little longer and a bunch of sam/josh stuff, haha.
> 
> i would also like to apologize that that there isn't too much of a _plot_ with this, but it originally started as a look inside josh's head before the events of the game, and it's spiraled from there. cheers.

When he first wakes up he has no idea where he is, which is a problem in and of itself.

There's a kink in his neck from where he slept with it bent at an odd angle. He squints, vision blurry as he glances around, and it takes a few minutes for his sleep-addled brain to process that he's in his bedroom in the lodge, as opposed to curled up at home. He grunts and goes to roll over, only to panic when he can't because he's managed to cocooned himself in the middle of the night. It takes some struggling and worming around, but eventually he manages to free his feet and roll off his bed without hurting himself too much.

He gravitates toward the kitchen automatically, his brain also hardwired to believe that being awake also means time for food. Food is to be followed and/or accompanied by one to two cups of coffee minimum. And meds, provided he doesn't have an audience.

He doesn't bother to hide his yawn as he pads down the stairs, his hand instead rubbing at the lovely spot of drool on his collar that's currently cooling against his skin. There might be other people when he gets downstairs, so he probably should've changed his shirt. But then he supposes that if he doesn't care, no one else will.

In all honesty he's pretty impressed with himself for getting up, because he usually would've rolled over and gone back to sleep. Must be the ingrained urge in him to be a good host that has him up and running. The clock hasn't even hit double digits yet.

Hannah's in the kitchen with Mike, still clad in her pajamas and fuzzy socks as she leans against the island, and rather than bid them a good morning as most people expect, something akin to annoyance or frustration wells up in him because Mike had better not be leading his sister on again. Mike's his friend, but Hannah's his little sister. One trumps the other.

Mike offers him a wave. Hannah's glaring at him like she's trying to set him on fire with only her mind. At least he'd die warm.

They're discussing tennis. Tennis, of all things, and Mike's nodding along as Hannah talks about various serves and such. He looks like he genuinely cares, so Josh has to give him some props for that. She mentions her bronze win at the Alberta International Championship back in August, and pride swells up beside his misguided frustration a few seconds ago, just as Mike's expression slips into something that looks like shock. And then he's beaming, and yeah, he'd better be impressed.

"That's so cool!" he exclaims, like he means it, really means it, and raises his hand for a high five. He probably has no idea what the Championship is. "Damn, girl."

A blush spreads high on Hannah's cheekbones, but then she's returning his high five with equal if not greater enthusiasm. ("I'm never washing this hand again," he envisions her saying, and oh Hannah no.) Mike might be a dick sometimes, but he's not always a dick, and while Josh stands in the doorway with still cooling drool on his shirt, he asks how long she's played, if she's the next Sharapova, and he seems legitimately interested. Or at least, that's how it sounds to Josh. But he's also not totally awake just yet, and he's been wrong before.

There's a mug sitting between her hands, and he figures it's much more convenient to snag hers than go make his own cup, because, y'know. Work. Effort. It's easy pickings.

(Hashtag blessed. He's not really awake.)

He waits until she's giggling at Mike's yawn to pick it up and down half the contents. It burns as he swallows, hot coffee warming his throat and belly, and he tries not to grimace because she put just a bit too much creamer in it. All conversation ceases, and she's staring at him with an unimpressed look while he sets it back down and shrugs.

"Good morning to you too," she mutters, looking down at her mug before pushing it away like it's been contaminated. Big brothers carry infectious diseases, didn't you know.

His movements are sluggish and he drags his feet the whole way across the island, and he has to make a conscious effort to keep his hands away from his face. His fingers twitch and curl like they want to bury themselves in his hair, and his sisters say it's one of his nervous habits. But he has nothing to be nervous about now, no reason for anxiety to eat at him, so he chalks it up to a general lack of caffeine and his literal cold feet. He should've put some socks on. Damn.

He sidles around the counter until he can bump Hannah's shoulder, and Mike watches the whole thing in amusement. He has a hand wrapped around his coffee mug, protecting it.

"Beth played DJ the whole way here," he says, reaching over to jab a button on the coffeemaker.

Hannah might as well be pouting, though he can't tell if there's any real heat behind it. Wishful thinking has him hoping it's because her jerk big brother took her coffee, and not because he interrupted anything with Mike, the guy who is not and probably...won't ever be interested in her in  _that_ way. That's too mean to say, way too mean. Josh is an asshole, but he's not _that_ much of an asshole. (And who knows, maybe one day the stars will align and she's gonna Digivolve into Hannah Munroe.)

"Yeah, like two days ago." One day, Hannah, one day. If he has to keep on track, keep on schedule, then she can too. "Why do you have to punish me and my coffee for that? The least you could've done was strap her to the roof instead."

"Oh fuck you guys," Beth mumbles, and he turns away from the appliance currently beeping at him to find her making her way into the kitchen to sit beside Mike. He probably pressed the wrong button.

"I want pancakes," he supplies, gaze shifting from his sister to the fridge and while he's not entirely sure where the thought came from, pancakes sound like a great idea. "I'm making pancakes."

The beeping continues.

He can cook—he may not be the best chef there is, but cooking also falls under the list of small tasks and assignments Beth gives him to keep both his mind and hands occupied, and if she has any reservations, she doesn't say anything. She doesn't ask him about his medication, at least, so he's thankful for that. That'll come later. He can hear another set of footsteps, and he finds himself focusing on their rhythm as he ducks into the cupboard and pokes around what food they'd lugged up the mountainside the day before.

"Awesome," Mike says, probably because he's getting free food. If Josh bothers to make anyone else any pancakes, that is. Just kidding, he's gonna share. He can do that. Where's that Bisquick he packed? "Hey, Sam."

Sam's back from a jog—an early morning  _jog_ , up here in the mountains. ( _Jogging is the worst. It keeps you healthy, but God, at what cost?_ ) Or maybe it was a hike. She could've been scaling trees to watch the sunrise over the horizon for all he knows, but the trees here are pretty tall, so consider him concerned  _and_ impressed. But there's no reason for Sam to be climbing trees up here, not now, so he pushes that train of thought right off the rails and turns to smile at her.

A flush has made its way across her face, leaving spots of color on her cheeks as she greets everyone and pulls off her headband. Her bangs fall in a mess around her forehead and her face is probably cold right now, and woah, woah, okay, now he's being creepy.

"Morning, guys," she says, taking off her gloves. She reaches up to smooth back her hair, and Josh waves a recently located carton of Bisquick at her. He feels incredibly underdressed.

"Pancakes," he says, and God dammit, why did he say that? Way to state the obvious, Washington. He doesn't know what's up with him lately. Maybe the altitude's getting to his head and messing with his already fucked up mind. Just what he needs. He can't find his chill and it's like what, not even nine in the morning?

Sam smiles, as if the best way to end a run is by stuffing her face with pancakes. Maybe it is, Josh doesn't know. He doesn't jog.

The others make small talk behind him, which gives him time to shift through his supplies and come up with some sort of game plan as to how he's going to make all of these pancakes. They drone on in the background, and he busies himself with the task at hand, because the last thing he needs is to let his mind wander, have his sisters worry about him, ruin their vacation.

"I'm gonna go grab a shower; be right back."

He wants to, so desperately wants to make a quip about offering her help with that, but instead he bites his tongue. It stings, and he wonders how hard he'd have to bite down to draw blood.

He's pretty sure he burned off most of his tastebuds.

 

> \----

His pancakes are fantastic. Everyone is welcome. Everyone except Beth and maybe Sam, a little bit, who offered to help until he made a comment about how it was like working with midgets, which earned him an elbow to both of his sides from the two of them.

He doesn't remember exactly who started it, but in the middle of clean-up Sam's suddenly grabbing one of the gloves she'd discarded on the counter after her run, and then she's throwing it on the floor in front of Chris.

"I challenge you to a duel," she says, fists at her hips as she stares up at him. "Snowball fight."

Chris' hand goes to his chest, over his heart in something that would've been shock.

"The lady issues a challenge!" he shoots back, and Josh stops in the middle of stacking dishes to watch the scene play out. Mike starts snickering. "Is this to be a battle of the sexes or a free-for-all?"

There's a murmur of agreement from most of the girls, and then Matt pauses in gathering up glasses and mugs. He looks over at Jess and Hannah and frowns. "Wait, wait, there are more of you! Unfair advantage."

Emily scoffs. "What, you boys afraid getting your asses kicked?" 

“We’ll just take Beth, she’s manly enough,” Josh supplies, and then he almost throws his stack of plates at the floor when her fist lands in his side and he wheezes. “Hits like one too. Ow, fuck, stop.”

_"Let's go already-y!"_ Chris says, drawing out the last word in a manner that's reminiscent of a cartoon robot Josh always found hilarious, and then he's making a beeline for the stairs. The others follow, dishes be damned, and Josh ducks around Hannah, paying no heed to the time and the orange bottle that's supposed to guarding his fate. He can worry about that later—he has more important concerns, such as trying to remember where he left his hat and figuring out who he's going to target first.

He's still laughing as he bounds down the hall after Chris, and Beth yells at him again.

"I'm gonna bury you in the snow, you  _jerk!"_

 

> \---- 

Beth doesn't bury him. She does, however, enlist Sam's aid in shoving handfuls of snow down the back of Josh's collar. 

Snowball fights with the Washingtons aren't silly little competitions full of laughs and giggles and ducking behind trees. A snowball fight with the Washingtons is all-out  _war_. 

Jess learns this the hard way, taking off toward a cluster of trees while Beth sets her sights on Matt, the poor unfortunate soul whose only mistake was to crouch two feet away (two feet too close) from Josh to gather up snow. He almost feels bad for the guy—almost, because then Hannah pelts him in arm. Mike's laugh lasts all of two seconds before Emily nails him in the back of the head. Sam and Ashley gang up on Chris, and Josh earns a glare from the latter when he starts laughing too.

God bless us, everyone.

He forewent  his pill in favor of playing in the snow like a child.  Oh well, he can take it after they go back inside, or double up on tonight's dose. He's fine, he can handle it. (He's gonna be throwing  _snow_ for a an hour or so. It's not like it's all that taxing or whatever.)

What he can't handle, however, is the smug look on Sam's face when she thinks she's one-up'd everyone she's crossed thus far, and he decides it's high time he rectifies that.

Her shriek is more like a laugh when he starts chasing after her, and he's pretty sure he looks like a drunkard tripping over himself as he does. Sam's a little more graceful and sure-footed than he is most of the time, though he'd like to blame his stumbling on the snow. He also doesn't go jogging every morning, because unlike  _some people_ he actually tries to enjoy what sleep he can get. What a heathen he is.

Sam ducks down and for a moment Josh debates tackling her, debates bending down just a little bit, arms around her waist and aiming for the forest floor, only to twist at the last second so that he takes the brunt of the fall. He'd take her down, sure, but he's not going to hurt her—he might be an asshole, but he's not  _that_  cruel. He doesn't get a chance to do any more than consider his little scheme, because then she's spinning around, gleam in her eye and snow in her fist, and he hardly gets out the _he_ part of his  _hey_  before it hits him square in the chest.

"Thirty love!" she shouts, pumping the same fist in the air above her head like she just took the gold from Hannah in Alberta.

" _Fifteen_ ," he says, hand brushing over his front as she takes a step back. "You've only hit me _once_."

"Is that a challenge?" Sam asks, giving him a look and yeah, yeah he's gonna tackle her now. Gonna take her down, rub some snow on her nose and laugh at her while she smacks his arm and rolls her eyes. And then the thought he had in the kitchen last night pops back into the forefront of his mind, and he has to make a conscious effort not to show it.

"Well," he starts, pausing for a dramatic effort as he maintains eye contact and bends at the knees to scoop up some snow of his own. Her stance shifts as if she's preparing to run again. Their friends are shouting and laughing behind them. "I mean it _is_ kind of snowball war, and you're the one who started it, by the way." He stands again, snowball in hand, and raises an eyebrow at her. He thrives off stuff like this. It's Sam. How could he not? "Are you telling me you're backing down now?" _  
_

Sam rocks back on her heels, and he worries that she's about to fall, about to catch her heel on one of the buried roots or rocks behind her and go tumbling down the mountain. It's a little bit of an irrational fear, seeing as Sam might as well join he and the twins on the list of people who know this mountain like the back of their hands, she's been visiting it with them long enough. Still, he finds himself shooting quick glances at the ground behind her, seeking out anything that might throw her off balance.

"Oh  _please_ , Washington," her voice catches his attention again, and he offers her a bemused look when he meets her eyes again. They're warm, inviting. Scheming.

She rocks again, this time to the balls of her feet, the snow crunching beneath her boots, and then suddenly she's pitching forward with a gasp.

His knee jerk reaction is to lunge forward to catch her, twisting with the intention of being the one to hit the ground first, of being the hero so Sam doesn't get hurt, only to realize a moment too late that no, no she's pulling his arm, and she's—what is she, channeling her inner John Cena?

Josh hits the ground with a grunt, the snow cushioning his fall only marginally, thinking of nothing more than  _ow, fuck_ and  _the betrayal_. Those thoughts come to a staggering halt as she straddles him, settles her weight over him, and his hands twitch at his sides with the sudden urge to settle them on his hips, and dammit, Sam, she's laughing at him.

"That's so low," he mutters, part embarrassment and part disbelief.

"I can't believe you fell for that," she says, looking a little too smug for his liking. Their friends are yelling at each other not too far away. They're gonna find them, gonna know, and he's never gonna live this down. His face is hot enough to melt the snow around them, and he can only hope he can pass off the red tint to his face as a result of the cold.

He makes the mistake of letting down his guard, and Sam takes full advantage of it by shoving a handful of snow in his face. Unbelievable.

But if she's not going to play fair then neither is he, so he sputters and lets her have her moment of glory to gloat, lets the snow seep into his collar and lets her think she's won. His hand goes to her hip, the other reaching for her back, and then he's pulling her toward him and rolling, flipping them so that he's top and grinning down at her.

The look of indignation on her face is priceless, and he chuckles low in his throat. It feels good. Really good, actually.

"Sorry, you were saying?"

There's no mistaking the way her gaze flickers to his mouth and lingers there for a second, and if he wasn't too chickenshit he'd probably do something about it.

Instead, he somehow manages to work up the nerve to brush loose bangs away from her forehead under the guise of smoothing snow off his glove and onto her nose. There are snowflakes caught on her eyelashes and her eyes are bright, a stark contrast her face pale from the cold and the snow around them.

"I totally had you," she says, but it comes out on an exhale and ends up sounding breathy. Her breath comes out in a little cloud in her front of mouth, and he didn't realize how close he's gotten until now.

"Had," he tells her. "Past tense. Shoe's on the other foot, sweetheart."

He's not sure where the pet name came from. Probably shouldn't have used it. Her cheeks are red, but she's also lying in the snow—lying beneath him, no less.

"Uh-huh," Sam hums, tilting her head, and yeah, this Josh wasn't expecting, wasn't really ready for, wasn't how he planned on it going down. Hannah's voice pops up in the back of his mind, telling him to 'live in the moment,' and his sister is the _last_ thing he wants to think about when her best friend's about to kiss him. If that's what she's doing. She's propping herself up on her elbows and she's all of centimeters away, so there isn't much else she could be planning on doing.

Unless she's planning on luring him in and then shoving more snow in his face. That'd be a new low for her.

"Sammy," he manages, voice strained and one of his hands still spread across her back. There's a lump in his throat, tight and constricting, and he's so tense, feels like every other muscle is locked into place as he sits there dumbly and Sam leans toward him. Her eyes meet his, bright green and full of questions, like she's asking for his okay, for his approval and for him to meet her halfway.

He doesn't move, digs his knees into the snow, hovers over her and freezes because for all his jokes, for all the twins' prodding and his little fantasies, he's kneeling over the girl he's had a crush on for almost a decade now, and he can't work up the nerve to do anything about it. She's about to kiss him, is reaching up to touch his face, and he's the loser who doesn't fucking move.

Her thumb ghosts over his cheek, the damp fabric of her glove almost gracing the corner of his mouth, and for the jolt that rocks through him she might as well have shocked him. Her breath clouds up around his chin, his lip. He can feel it. She lingers while he wars with himself, lets another breath pass between them, and then she shivers. He attributes it to the cold. She has to be cold. The hell was he thinking, laying her in the snow like that.

"Sammy," he says again, and his voice sounds so small, like an insecure twelve year-old who went from thinking his sister's friend was weird to thinking she was kinda cute. Fuck.

"Josh...?"

And he swallows, gloves damp with snow and sweat, and the back of his neck on fire beneath his collar. Her hand drops and he pulls away, sets her free of the cage composed of the limbs that still feel too stiff, and settles back on his heels. He wants to look away, look anywhere else because he's royally fucked things up now, gone and ruined a good thing, spoiled the moment because he's too much of a coward. Real smooth, man, what the shit.

So he's not the only one to consider it though. Good to know.

Sam's brow furrows, and please, please he really hopes that isn't hurt in her eyes. But what else can that be?

"The others are probably wondering where we are. Wouldn't, uh, wouldn't want them to start looking at get lost."

It's weak, it's incredibly sad and weak, but it's all he's got. Whatever joke he attempted in there falls flat, falls under his boot and gets crushed when he goes to stand, just like any chances he would've had with Sam.

(Their friends probably would've gone looking for them, but it's not like they'd have any issue with finding them together. Like that. Hopefully. Fuck, Washington.)

She nods, slow and unsure. Josh stands, holding out his hand for her to take in order to help her up, because after that whole fiasco it's the least he can do. She eyes it at first and then takes it, fingers wrapping around his palm, and for a split second he thinks that they're okay, they're gonna be fine, she'll swat his arm and tell him she needs a little more wooing than that, that his romance game is kind of weak.

She pulls her hand back to brush snow off herself, off her knees and her back, and he notes that there are still remnants in her hair. But he can't brush it out, not now, after all that. He drops his hand.

Sam doesn't hold his on the way back, hardly even looks at him.

The lump in his throat takes up residence in his chest, pressing against his ribcage, and he can't think of anything to say to her. Most of what comes to mind would end up sounding too awkward or forced, and  _sorry_ would end up more insulting than anything.

What does he even say to her? _Hey Sam, sorry about that. Kissing you? Bleh, right? So weird._ _It's not that I didn't want to, I just, y'know. I don't know. God, Sam, I don't know._

Matt and Mike are the only ones left outside still, the yard nothing but a collection of various footprints and patches of exposed grass, but Josh is too caught up in the events of the last ten minutes to catch whatever Mike's said that has Matt laughing. He's still snickering when he looks over at them, Sam kicking one of the steps to knock some snow off her boot.

"Was wondering where you guys ran off too. Get lost?" Josh's stomach drops, taking up residence on his feet, and Sam's quick with a reply, grinning as she pulls her hat off.

"I kicked his ass," she tells them.

"That's my girl," Matt says, earning a fist bump as she passes him by to walk inside before he follows. She doesn't look back at Josh.

Mike raises his eyebrows, his expression something like a leer, but Josh's gaze passes over him to linger unfocused on a point above his head. He eyes the porch light, wonders if they have any replacement bulbs for it, just in case. Wonders why he wonders that.

The front door's still open, there are voice traveling outside from the depths of the lodge, and Mike's still standing on the porch and regarding him with a curious look.

"Well fuck," Josh finally says, deflating.

Mike frowns, and he wants to ask why he cares so much, if he even cares at all. It's not like he and Mike are exactly close. They just share some mutual friends, had a few classes together back in high school, only knew each other's names in middle school because they were on the same little league team, and Josh had heard more about Mike than he'd ever bothered to learn on his own because of Hannah.

But Mike's not all that terrible, he guesses, and he's shuffling on the porch, frowning a bit like he's trying to find some wise words of encouragement when it comes to the ladies but doesn't know how to word it. Josh wants to tell him to drop it, don't worry about it, it's not really anyone's business and he really doesn't want to talk about it, but he instead busies himself with shoving his hands as deep into his pockets as he can.

Eventually Mike claps a hand on his shoulder, grip firm and a little jarring, and Josh doesn't know what he expected. "I'm sure she'll come around."

At first he wants to laugh because uh, no, no that's not really it, but he's not really up for getting into all the fine details, and at least the guy's making an effort. Josh manages to mask some of his discomfort with a huff and half-assed smirk, like he can try to pass off his fuck up as another ill-fated attempt at flirting that had earned him an eye roll and swat to the arm. His response seems to appease Mike for the time being, who offers him another pat that ends up being more annoying than encouraging, and then he's left standing outside alone. He turns back to the woods, admiring the late morning light and trampled snow, and then he lets out a breath.

He toes his boots off by the door and tosses them in the general direction of everyone else's. They hit the wall, one landing on its side on the floor and the other on one of Jess' fuzzy ones. His jacket feels heavy and suffocating, and he almost throws it on the ground, but that would cause a scene and right now that's the last thing he needs or wants.

He finds himself searching out Sam's voice, like he's going to trail after it and find her, address whatever happened in the woods back there even if he doesn't know where to begin.

Josh curses, raising a hand to his hair and slumping against the wall where no one can see him. He drags his hand down his face, down over his eyes and nose before reaching his mouth where it pauses. He starts to laugh, low and bitter and quiet, and it dies just as quickly as it began when Chris calls out for him, says they need some help with the fire.

Good. Someone else's problems he can deal with, let his sit on the back burner for a while to simmer. Even if this one involves Sam, so fingers crossed it doesn't boil over before he can get to it.

Josh pads into the main room, slipping into a smile before making cracks about how years of boy scouts failed to stick with his best friend.

He makes it a point not to look at Sam, even as her eyes burn a hole into the side of his head.


	5. winter winds.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the best way to spread christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear. ashley coerces most of the guys into baking cookies. sam confronts josh.
> 
> josh you only like christmas because you wanna try to catch sam under the mistletoe don't even lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a year! i can't believe this. merry christmas and happy all the holidays in between. what i think is funny is the fact that i started this right after posting the last one, and then let it simmer for a while, lmao. that said, i'm sorry for the wait! i have a couple decent chunks written that are supposed to come after this, but i got stuck on this one for a while, primarily because the tone of the things i've been writing to take place after this do _not_ match this tone, and after writing some other things for a while slipping back into josh's voice came with its own set of roadblocks. 
> 
> also these last names what the heck i did not ask for these why mess with the canon we have created what ho a foe
> 
> this is meant to be a short story (it wasn't even supposed to _be_ an actual story, lmao), so suffice to say things are going to take a turn soon enough before we reach the conclusion. i have other projects in the works! i just wanted to finish this one before letting myself get too invested in those.
> 
> i'm so sorry for the wait between chapters!  
> ngl, a little pleased with the ending to this one. trash, man, i'm tellin' ya.
> 
> to make up for all that waiting, have a long ass chapter! it's almost 2k longer than the last one was, by my count. have at it, you hooligans. and if you're still sticking around for this story, i just want to say thank you. i mean it, and i greatly appreciate it. you're awesome. (also please excuse any typos bc i'm sure there are many rip me)
> 
> this chapter is so dumb omg
> 
> s/o to court for fueling my 3 am jossam rambles and rants and cries! that last bit is for you, mostly. ur rad.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, _fuck_.

He's standing in the bathroom slashing water on his face and feeling sorry for himself. But then it's apparently his go-to, so what else is new. He palms two pills and drops one to get stuck next to the drain, and he hums “Taps” for all of three seconds before fishing it back out so it doesn’t dissolve at the bottom of the basin and swallows his meds dry. And then he questions why he didn’t bother with cupping his hands under the faucet. His cheeks have returned to their usual lovely, luminescent complexion, lacking the bite of frost now that he's spent the better part of the past hour padding around and wracking his brain for an answer aside from because _you're stupid, dumbass._

The look on Sam's face as he chickens out and pulls away, leaves her lying in the snow is burned into the forefront of his mind, just as vivid as the pill bottle he tosses back into his bag of toiletries. But the one he can ignore for the time being, and the other is waiting for him downstairs, and for the duration of the next few days.

He zips his bag shut, stowing it away in the cabinet with a little more force than necessary.

It's not like he really has to hide anything, seeing as the only one who uses this bathroom is him (one of the perks of him lucking out with having a toilet three feet away from his bed; suck it, Beth), but the last thing he needs is Chris or someone else ducking into it because one of the other ten bathrooms is two rooms too far away and asking what  _amitriptyline_ is.

At the very least he can tuck his problems away, he supposes. Zip them all up, plaster a grin back on that doesn't look too weak or too forced, ignore the bags under his eyes like he has for some time now; stow them all away in neat little bottles and packages to be dealt with at a later date. Or never, because "never" is synonymous with "later," like when mom says “maybe” which basically means “no.”

The others are downstairs playing Christmas music, but it sounds less like singing and more like a couple seagulls going through puberty. He snorts at the thought, and then offers his reflection another once-over. Looks decent enough, he figures.

Josh stretches, rewarded with the little  _pop pop crack_ of his spine as he does. He drops his arms as he returns to his bedroom, swinging in loose arcs back to his sides as his gives the pile of clothing at the end of the not-so-neatly-neatly made bed a glance, and decides they're put away enough for now.

He almost runs over Ashley in the hall, met with a brief squawk two seconds before she swats his arm with a  _Jeez, Josh!_

"Had to pee," she tells him, as if that's necessary information. She's free to do whatever the hell she wants here, within reason, but he'd like to think bathroom schedules weren't going to be a topic of choice.

He grins sardonically, as he does, lop-sided and lazy, exposing his teeth. "No way man, you too?"

She swats his arm again, though this time with an eye-roll and her bemused look. There’s a flush to her features that makes her freckles stand out; her eyes are brighter and her face less drawn than the last time he saw her. She seems less stressed, less wound-up and ready to crack now that she’s out of school for the next couple weeks, has enough time to decompress and not fill up his inbox with ten notifications about how hard her composition class is in about as many minutes.

“Ha ha, Josh,” Ash says, and then she’s hooking a thumb over her shoulder, gesturing toward the landing and the general vicinity of where Mike’s trying to serenade them all with his own rendition of _Have A Holly Jolly Christmas_. It isn’t working. Josh is anything but wooed. His knees aren't weak. He's vaguely disappointed. “I’ve been looking for you! C’mon, we’re baking cookies.”

He’s already halfway down the stairs by the time she turns around, laughing at him as he goes.  

 

> —-

Chris has a mouthful of raw dough, despite Sam telling him not to for health reasons, and Hannah because it’s a waste of dough. He flicks some at her, and has the nerve to appear scandalized when the former tells him she hopes he chokes on it. If he does, Josh is just hoping someone else decides to take one for the team and step up to plate for some CPR.

Mike waves to him from the door when he wanders in, Ashley in tow, and thankfully he had the decency to shut up and let Bublé take over for the next little while. Josh nods back, lets his gaze skip over Sam least they make eye contact because that is decidedly _not_ a can of worms he wants to open right now. Matt’s on the other side of the breakfast bar, bent over the counter with Jess and Emily and snickering about something. Beth's at the far end of the kitchen,  waving and smiling like she went through an entire coffee pot solo, but he doesn't trust her enough not to smear the red frosting she's mixing across his face, so he beelines to avoid her entirely. Her face falls a little; ha, he's foiled her plans already. (Josh also calls bullshit on that theory, seeing as the last time he chugged a shit ton of coffee all it did was fill his bladder.) To her credit, at least Hannah is more enthralled with green food dye than she is with casting Mike sidelong glances he doesn't return, and then it bugs him that  _that's_ what he thinks about.

That thought gets shoved to the back with all the other things he tries not to think about but tends to anyway, and bypasses Sam messing with batter to see what all the fuss is about at the other side of the counter. It smells good in here at least, though that may have something to do with the bag of chocolate chips that have ended up in more mouths than cookies.

“It looks like a dick,” Matt says after he ambles over, leaves Ashley to join the twins and watch Chris spit out raw dough. They’re a classy bunch. No one's ended up missing any fingers or bloodied, so it's been a pretty solid weekend so far.

“It does not!” Jess huffs, indignant. Josh peers over Emily’s shoulder, takes in the monstrosity that is the countertop, covered in flour and lumps of misshapen dough. There are a few semi-decent snowmen, a couple that'll pass as Santa's with no feet, and maybe a total of three whole candy canes that have yet to be destroyed. And to think, they are supposed to be some creative-minded people in this group. Probably didn't help any that they were busy peeing or counting pills. Ah well, you win some, you lose some.

“Girl, you made a dick,” Josh supplies, helpful as always. There are literally a handful of cookie cutters not even a foot away. What sort of fresh hell. He says keep it. Bake it and let it be a memory they treasure for all time, that one day Jessica Riley managed to form a sugar cookie dick out of a snowman cookie cutter. What a world they live in, what amazing things they come to.

“It’s a snowman!” she repeats, mouth twisted in a way he can only think to describe as a pout, and shoots him a glare that clearly states  _you aren't helping matters any_. He already knew that, just wanted to add in his unwanted two cents. Her best friend's laughing at her, all teeth and snickers.

“The hell if that’s a snowman,” Emily says, and Josh just about chokes on his own spit.

“It’s a dickman,” Matt adds.

“Hey guys, Jess make a cookie dick.”

“Oh my god, no I didn’t!” Jess hisses, glancing over at Emily for back up, but she’s too busy laughing about the whole thing to be of much use still. “It’ll look different after I bake it.” It probably won't. It's worth a shot. Excluding pancakes, thus far this is the most exciting thing that's happened to him all day.

“Hang on, I wanna see this dick,” comes from Mike, and Josh looks up to find him wandering over, Chris in hysterics behind him and Beth looking like she’s about to piss herself. Hannah has her face in her hands, whether because of Mike or a reason he doesn't know, and Sam is doing her best to look impassive. It takes Mike a minute to process, but Josh can see the moment where it does, when it clicks, the smoke leaking out of his ears as the gears whir. “…okay, no one say anything.”

“Dickman. The hero we don’t need, and the one we don’t deserve,” Beth supplies thoughtfully from where she’s making frosting. The tip of her index finger is red from where she's been sneaking samples—ha! And she thinks she's sneaky. He's telling everyone it's full of cooties and Beth germs (the worst of all germs, honestly).

“You guys are the worst,” Jess mumbles, and he watches her smash the dough back into a ball. She descends on the sink with a huff to the tune of Mike boo'ing and Emily telling her it's not a big deal, and snags one of the water bottles in the fridge before migrating to the main room. "Later, losers. Let me know when you're done burning cookies."

Mike and Em are standing with their heads bent together, poking prodding dough into lumps while Matt offers helpful critiques when he turns back. And, deciding that he's not doing much aside from collecting dust by standing there, follows her shortly after. Not without snagging two fresh chocolate chip cookies first, however.

She's comfortably wedged into the corner of the couch when he approaches her, head bent over her phone and feet tucked beneath her. She doesn't so much as glance up at him, frowning before continuing her scrolling. "If you sit too close I won't hesitate to use you as a footrest."

He pauses, lingering before settling for a cushion that's just out of her toe-poking range. Josh stretches, and then slumps on the couch because he has good form and little care for how much room he takes up.

"You know you're not gonna get reception up here, right?" he says, nodding to the phone she's poking at, her second of the year. There's a quirk to her eyebrow as she glances up, and then back to her screen again.

"I'm DJ tonight, you goof." Oh. Right. He forgot about that. Hannah got her turn last night, and Jess gets to turn up Spotify in between movies and snacks later.

"Can't wait until I can play that track of dogs barking for twelves hours for you guys," he says, and she laughs, pausing in her ministrations. He stretches out a little more, basically manspreading (who knows, Hannah and Sam said he did, and apparently trying to air out his junk on occasion is a bad thing), and sinks down until his neck is bent at an awkward angle, chin ducked into his chest. It's not the most becoming sight, but at least he's comfortable. He offers her one of the cookies he snagged, melted chocolate smeared across the pad of his thumb.

"You're such a weirdo." She shakes her head, setting her phone to the lock screen before leaning over to leave it on the coffee table.  


"Someone has to be. Keeps things interesting."

Jess hums, leaning back and looking over at him for the first time since he entered the room. She offers him a quiet  _thanks_ when she takes the cookie from him, and glances back when Chris' laugh drifts from the kitchen.

"Surprised he hasn't choked yet," she says, taking a bite with a thoughtful nod.

"Surprised you guys didn't choke Mike out for his  _singing_ ," he returns, implied air quotes and everything. He flexes his toes, and Jess grimaces when they crack. He didn't realize he had so much nitrogen in his joints. Add that to his little lists of quirks and oddities. 

Briefly, he considers shoving his cookie into his mouth in its entirety; it won't be the first time, nor would Jess be too shocked by the sight.

"Don't you know?" she asks, raising her eyebrows. He rolls his head across the cushion because, uh? "The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear."

Josh's laugh sounds like a bark, rips right out of him and leaves flecks of spit at the corners of his mouth and someone in the kitchen probably wondering if he just imploded because  _Elf,_ of all things. How can you ever go wrong with  _Elf?_

"Never change, Riley," he finally gets out, shaking his head. "Never change."

"Didn't really plan on it," she immediately shoots back. Josh can see what his sister likes so much about her—she speaks her peace, isn't much one for filters, despite how well that may or may go over with others. Still, she's cool, and isn't afraid to give him shit right back. She reaches over to use his sleeve as a napkin. She's a good person.

There's a knowing look in her eye when he glances her way again, tears his gaze away from the dark TV screen reflecting the fairy lights they've left up, and he isn't entirely sure what to make of it. Jessica scheming is never a good thing, especially if he's on the receiving end of it. (When someone  _else_  is on the receiving end though? Count him in. Always count him in. There's a reason Melinda Washington has tried and failed to ban pranks from their household. Bob passed more torches to his kids than just genes.)

"Speaking of Christmas..." she starts, and then trails off either for dramatic effect or because she lost her train of though. Josh has been the victim of both, so he feels for her. Beth shouts to tell them the cookies will be done in a bit and they better come help decorate them or they don't get to steal any more,  _Josh_ , and Jess just smiles. "Next year we're totally doing Secret Santa."

Oh shit, he never gave Sam her gift.   

 

>   —-

Lunch and dinner kind of merges into one meal, turns into "we had pancakes earlier so I dunno, man, go forage for food."

He makes a meal of some Cheez-Its and pepperoni Hannah hacked up, and then proceeds to veg for the next few hours, listening to Ash and Beth discuss books, and makes idle chit-chat with Chris. The others have scattered, left to wander aimlessly until they all reconvene for movie night, a marathon of beer and mixed drinks and enough sickly sweet holiday cheer to rot their teeth out by New Years. Josh's attempts to pull a Dad-after-Thanksgiving-dinner in one of the library armchairs is thwarted by his best friend jamming his elbow into his ribs.

He comes back to with a grunt, a little disoriented as he tries to play catch up, tune back into the conversation about a book series he wasn't paying attention to. A hand scrubs down his face before he sits up, lets out something that sounds like a "bru-uh" and doesn't bother attempting to cover the obnoxious yawn he lets out. Long days of doing absolutely nothing and having absolutely nothing to do are pretty taxing.

Chris beams at him, and Josh reaches over to jostle him. He closes his eyes and waits a few more minutes, running his hands through his hair so that his nails drag along his scalp and his fingers tug at the roots. He yawns again, and then figures his breath probably reeks of pepperoni and cheese and Coke. He also dozed with his mouth hanging open, so isn't that attractive.

"Ass," he says to Chris before he stands and stretches. "Movies start at seven," he tells the girls, and Hannah doesn't even look up from the book she's curled around to try to wave him away. "Be there or... don't be."

"That's deep." Chris nods.

The fact that Josh has yet this week to get lost in the lodge is a feat in itself, but that's not for lack of trying. The damn place is cursed, probably, he muses as he winds around one corner and then another, meaning to navigate to the main room and start set-up for the night, come up with some sort of set list before they all start arguing over what to watch.

Instead, he finds Sam basically shooting the shit and Matt and Mike. Not quite what he expected, and Josh slows his roll for a second before she looks up and makes eye contact. He could wave, nod, say her name, speak actual English words, and he... crosses his eyes and sticks his tongue out at her. What message is that supposed to convey? _Hey Sam, I just had a brain fart? Sup, Sammy, how's it hanging. Do you hate me or nah?_

Mike's still talking, but from the look on Sam's face she's not entirely tuned into the conversation. Sometimes Mike pretty much talks to hear himself talk, so it's not all that surprising. And it’s not like he has a problem with the guy, not really. He’d seen him in his sixth period Humanities class, bumped into him in the hall, once asked to borrow a pencil from him, but hardly gave him more than a passing glance if he could help it. They hang out to make shitty YouTube videos, had a blast with it back in early high school, and they went from "hey I know that guy" to decent buddy status. It's a guy thing.

It also doesn't help any that he's the object of Hannah's unreturned affections but hey, who's counting.

Josh jogs the rest of the way to join in on the tail end of a conversation he was never part of to begin with, greeted by a two-fingered salute from Matt and a sup nod from Mike. See? Guy thing.

"You're an idiot," Sam's saying, and while he has no idea of the context, he agrees anyway.

He watches him shrug, and apparently he's been passed the baton when she starts to back away, make for the stairs to go take her bath most likely, rejoin them all citrus-y and fresh and well-rested, just in time for the heated debate that's going to ensue because do they watch  _Elf_ or  _Christmas with the Kranks_ first? How is that even an argument? (Spoiler: It isn't.)

Mike has a grin on his face that can only be described as shit-eating (which is gross, but whatever), and then he’s elbowing Matt whose face suddenly lights up, eyebrows crawling up his forehead and an elongated _ooohhhhh_ to pair with Mike’s laugh. He glances down at himself real quick, doesn’t see anything amiss—his fly isn’t down and both his socks are still there—before his gaze shoots over to Sam and only finds her frowning at the ceiling, sees Mike pointing out of his peripherals.

It doesn’t compute for a minute, the request doesn’t process, and then there’s a rock in his gut; he’s right back outside, frosty air biting at his cheeks and snow in his shirt from where Sam got him, and that cold little feeling when she turned her head and he walked away.

Mistletoe. So that’s where that fucker ended up.

Jessica.

This is the part where he cracks a joke as he always does, offering a sly grin and what he tries to pass off as a smooth comment, where he’s flirting but also isn’t but also is. This is where he’s supposed to tell her she didn’t have to put together some big to-do just to get a moment with him, _gosh Sammy, I’m flattered_.

This is the part where he thinks about their snowball fight, and how she made a move to kiss him and he froze.

She looks perplexed, shooting the other two guys a glare, lips twisted, and he throws caution to the wind—dropkicks it, actually. Drops it and says _see ya_.

_Fuck fuck fuck it,_ he figures.

“Hey Sammy,” he starts, and grins just for show. It’s not perfect, not ideal, and definitely not a good idea, but he stoops to kiss her anyhow, leans forward in an attempt to close that gap between them to the tune of wolf whistles and laughter. At the very least, it’ll make for a dumb story.

“What—”

And then she fuckin’ decks him. Turns at the last second and head butts him right in the jaw. There’s a starburst of pain as he’s holding his jaw and she lets out a hiss, takes a step back. Mike’s laughing and Matt asks if they’re okay in-between his own chuckles, and Josh is just holding his face and trying not to let too much of his embarrassment bleed through. Holding his face is easy enough to pass off as pain, of course. This fuckin' smarts, Jesus, Rock Head Giddings here.

“Josh!” Sam gets out, hands raised like she’s going to touch him but doesn’t, and he considers pulling away, but more than a few feet between them because better safe than sorry.  “Oh my god, Josh, I’m sorry! I didn’t think you would—”

“Damn, Sammy, you coulda just said no,” he says with a laugh, pulling his hand away from his jaw. All of his teeth are still there, so he can cross off 'emergency dental work' off his list for the night, maybe add 'nurse his wounded pride' to it instead. In hindsight, it probably wasn't the best idea to try to plant one on her now, especially given this morning and the way she's been lowkey not going out of her way to talk to him (avoiding, dude, the word you're looking for is avoiding), so he's mildly surprised she hasn't told him go to fuck off yet. The night's still young. He isn't quite sure how to read her right now.

"Dude, you good?" Matt calls from the couch, making no move to actually be of any use. Josh wonders if it's gonna bruise or just be sore for a solid hour after this. Dammit, that's his popcorn chewing jaw.

"Peachy," he says through his teeth, flashing a dimple and a thumbs up. His smirk leaves Mike non the wiser, and finds Matt leaning forward a little like he considered getting up to help. Brownie points for him, then.

"Seriously, are you okay?" Sam asks again, and he turns back to find her giving him that concerned look of hers still, the one where her brow knits and her eyes keep darting from his jaw to his eyes. It's kind of endearing, and he'd say something if he hadn't already jammed his foot in his mouth enough times already.

He gives her a dismissive wave. No, he's not exactly great, but it's more his pride and ego that's taken a beating today. Getting smacked in the face (on accident) was just an added bonus.

"Think I'll make it, Sammy," he drawls, hands at his side and a lop-sided grin taking its place. "Probably not the worst thing a woman's done to me."

Something passes over her features while Mike snickers (Josh will literally pay him to shut up. Or stick him outside. Whichever comes first.), and he doesn't know what to make of that, either. He's gone from pretty fluent in 'Sam' to... a lil worried he's fucked things up. But that's also kind of his M.O. If it ain't broke, Josh'll try to find some way to break it. His sisters can attest to this.

"That so?" she asks, and her face falls into the one he likes to think of as her neutral smile, where her eyes don't totally reflect it, but she doesn't look one-hundred percent pissed, either. He opens his mouth to speak even though he shouldn't, because the last time Josh Washington thought something through was... a while ago, but then Sam raises her hand to pat his wounded cheek and tells him: "I think you'll live."

He watches her turn to ascend the stairs for her bath, leaves him standing at the bottom like a bump on a log before he's shooting a look at Dumb and Dumber on the couch.

"You're never gonna score at this rate," Mike says, handing him a beer before Josh falls back to the couch, taking up residence in Jess' seat from earlier. Matt offers his knee a sympathetic fist bump.

Josh huffs a laugh, and then waits for the cushions to swallow him whole. 

 

> —-

Halfway between the discussion over whether or not  _Die Hard_ really counts as a Christmas movie since it's set during Christmas, but came out in July of '88, Josh ducks up to go change into some comfier loungewear because pjs are better movie-watching gear than jeans. In a similar vein, if they're going to count _Die Hard_ as a Christmas movie, you have to count  _Iron Man 3_ as one, too.

He's considering just how to go about procuring a giant stuffed bunny of his own when there's a knock at his door, and he gives an affirmative grunt while shoving his clothes back in the drawer.

"Josh?"

He turns to find Sam poking her head through the doorway, almost like she's unsure and afraid of stepping over some salt line meant to ward of demons and other nasty little buggers. Too late, Sammy, those are stored away elsewhere. There's an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach, not unlike gas, but then he thinks he shouldn't be associating farts with girls in his bedroom. God, why does he do anything he does.

"You can come in," he says, closing the drawer behind him because it also includes her Christmas gift. He should probably just give it to her now, get it over and done with, but the timing doesn't feel right and it also doesn't feel like one of those "git 'er done" sort of deals, either. He doesn't know how to explain it. It's weird. He's weird. Everything has been weird. He needs a thesaurus to think of a word to replace 'weird.' "I don't bite."

Sam lingers on the precipice of his bedroom, her presence like an omnipresent phantom he has yet to sway and not totally sure he wants to, either. Her fingers curl around the dark wood of the door before she steps in, leaps over that threshold and looks at him and then doesn't, gaze cutting away to stare at the rumpled sheets of the bed he half-assed making this morning, and he shifts to offer a quip that only he can.

"What, looking for a recap?"

Her mouth is set into a thin line, her face pulled in on itself in a look he can only describe as determination—determination for murder, probably. Come to finish the job and punch him in the head this time. He briefly considers calling out for Beth or Chris, but instead decides to meet his fate like a man, head-on and in his jammies.

“Sam?” he tries, closing the dresser drawer with a hip check and making no move to meet her halfway. As she gets closer Josh can see a hint of uncertainty in that fold between her eyebrows, in the way her pace falters once she’s about to breech his personal bubble. He opens his mouth, goes to say her name again, ask what wrong, who died, what body does she need help burying, but she beats him to it and shakes her head.

“Shut up. Stop talking.”

“Kind of a lot to ask for,” he tells her, doing the exact opposite. He can’t help but feel a little put out, a little cornered when she has him backed against his dresser, especially now with the way things have shifted between them, grown a little awkward of the course of maybe twelve hours. Sam’s staring at his mouth, giving it a good, long, hard look, and then up at his eyes like she’s searching for something, and he doesn’t know what to tell her. Maybe this is a private wringing out from earlier that she reserved for now, had the decency to save for a moment she got him alone, really gave him what for for that little stunt he’d pulled earlier when he’d left her in the snow.

“Don’t say anything stupid until later.”

She reaches for him and pauses for a second partway through, and he realizes he doesn’t have his last will and testament in order when they come to rest against his shirtfront, sink and take cold, warping the faded Coke logo into something indistinguishable. He watches her still, glancing down between their height difference and lying in wait to see what her next move is, if he should be concerned or not. He almost tries her name again when she looks up, and ducking his head apparently gives her the advantage she was looking for when one hand comes up to grip the back of his neck.

His brain kicks into high gear when she tilts her head, leans forward a little and tries to coax him into meeting her, too. So oh. _Oh_. Okay. He’s not entirely opposed to this—kinda wasn’t expecting it, but he’s given something like this more thought than he should have, has probably side-eyed her more than necessary, has wondered what it’d be like for her to get up in his space, and he’s probably thinking more than he should be right now.

Sam’s arm comes to rest across his shoulders when she kisses him, when he cranes his neck into that space between them and closes it. She kisses him like she’s put some thought of her own into this, reminiscent of the snowbank earlier but something else in its own right.

It's... not what he expected, to say the least. It isn't magical, life-altering, shattering his reality and leaving him floating high above the rest of the world on a cloud. Her foot doesn't pop, she doesn't swoon, even if she does sway in his hold. She doesn't taste like cherry or strawberry or whatever flavor of lipgloss she uses, but like hot cocoa and almond milk and spit. But it's... it's good.

His face still hurts a little as her hand grazes the side of it, comes to rest against his cheek as she tilts her head, angles it like she's searching, and he follows. Palm at the small of her back Josh tugs her a little bit closer, his other hand coming to rest at the space between her shoulder blades every time she moves her arms.

She pulls away first, a slow detachment of limbs as her arm unwinds from his shoulders, her other hand sliding off his cheek until all that’s left is a phantom sensation. He’s a little hesitant, mostly out of shock, but partly out of worry that if he makes one false move she’ll end up smacking him again. She moves and he doesn't, lets her pull away and put that breathing room between them again.

“Sam,” he says, brow furrowed as he watches her walk away, watches her pause by the door before turning around to face him again. In the near-dark it’s hard to read her expression, though he sometimes found her a little difficult to read to begin with. His tongue darts out to wet his lip, like the ghost of hers is still there. “Why?”

She frowns, lets go of the doorknob and makes to approach him again but doesn’t.

“I mean why now?” he asks, gestures vaguely to the room around them. The more he asks, the more he digs, the more likely he is to ruin the moment, dig himself into a hole and ask her to throw dirt on him. But it’s the innate curiosity, the one feeding off of Sam’s, that needs an answer, some kind of explanation. He’s been setting himself up for failure all day. Her head tilts a little, gaze slanting to the corner of the room and then back. What does this make them now? Where are they supposed to stand? Are they, are they _okay?_

Josh shifts his stance, cool hardwood creaking beneath his bare feet and weight, and waits for an answer that might make or break the… whatever they are, whatever potential they could or would have had, if he hasn’t screwed that already and she’s caught it in its death throes.

There’s a smile to her when she finally picks up her head to look at him again, pins him back against the dresser with her gaze, and he isn’t totally sure what to make of it. The handbook to Making Passes at Your Sister’s Best Friend (And Having Her Return Them) never did much aside from speculate.

“Maybe for the same reason you wouldn’t earlier,” she says, and he pushes away to take another few steps toward her, bridge that gap again if only just a little. If he’s frowning a little, he can’t help it; there’s fuzz in his brain, buzzing down under his skin to duke it out with nitrogen and stiff joints.

“Kind of hard to make moves on a girl when she tries to bust your teeth in,” Josh says, and has to bite back a few more smart remarks, least he ruin or cheapen the moment, as he is wont to do. He still doesn't have an definite answer as to where this leaves them. Is this is her making a dig back at him?

She rolls her eyes. “Not that. And I said I was sorry.”

He nods, and his fingers twitch as if to reach for the side of his face again. He waits for her to mention the snow, when she moved and he didn’t, and when he finally did it was to roll away, offer up a rejection not outright, but essentially implied. He’d never truly put into consideration how else she would read that, but Sam’s also a little more perceptive than he gives her credit for—he has a weak poker face when it comes to her, sometimes.

Sam reaches for the door again, still giving him that small, soft smile, and part of him wants to run up to her and shake her, grab her by the shoulders until both their heads rattle because really? That’s how this all goes down? He initiates the set-up, fucks up the follow through, earns a head butt, and then she’s gonna come into his room and plant one on him like non the wiser? (Has she been thinking about this? Is this something she’s been mulling over?)

“Someone had to,” she says, and then the door’s closed behind her, and he listens to her footsteps fade as she wanders down the hall to go rejoin their friends, caught up somewhere in _Christmas Vacation._

He leans back against the bureau, arms folded, and stares at the floor for a solid minute, lets all the sound drift up to meet him, join in the buzz at the back of his mind, stemming down to his fingertips.

“Huh,” he says, looking at the rug with the corner folded up from where his shuffling about messed with it like it’s about to do a magic trick. “Huh.”

He's screwed.

His stomach gurgles and he can hear Jess cackling at the TV.


End file.
